One morning three cousins were walking slowly down the village street towards the house of their Aunt Betty, where they had been invited to dine. They were eager and excited, for there was something peculiar about the invitation, though none but Jenny knew exactly what it was. Jenny began:—

“Well, I do wonder who’ll get it!”

“Get what?” asked Grace.

“Why, don’t you know? Didn’t your mother tell you?” said Jenny, in surprise. “Aunt Betty didn’t mean to have us know, but mamma told me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Grace.

“Nor I,” put in Ruth.

“Why,” said Jenny eagerly, “you know Aunt Betty has not been so well lately, and her doctor says she must have some one to live with her besides old Sam, and she’s made up her mind—mamma says—to take one of us three and give her all the advantages she can while she lives, and leave her something when she dies. Mamma says, probably her whole fortune, or at any rate a big share. It’s a grand chance! I do hope she’ll take me!”

“But,” said Ruth, “I don’t understand; why should she leave everything to one, after spending so much on her?”

“Oh, to make up to her for giving up so much,” said Jenny. “She’s so cranky, you know!”

“It won’t be much fun to live with her,” said Grace thoughtfully. “But think of the advantages! I’d have all the music lessons I want, and I’m sure she’d let me go to concerts and operas. Oh! Oh!”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Jenny. “She wouldn’t want you going out much; for my part I’d coax her to travel; I’d love to go all over the world—and I’m just dying to go to Europe, anyway.”

“What would you choose, Ruth?” asked Grace.

“I don’t know,” answered Ruth slowly, “and it’s no use to wish, for of course she won’t choose me. I don’t think she ever cared much for me, and I do make such stupid blunders. It seems as if I was bound to break something or knock over something, or do something she particularly dislikes every time I go there. You know the last time I went there I stumbled over a stool and fell flat on the floor, making her nearly jump out of her skin—as she said—and getting a big, horrid-looking bump on my forehead.”

The girls laughed. “You do seem to be awfully unlucky, Ruth,” said Jenny magnanimously, “and I guess the choice will be one of us two.”

“Well, here we are!” said Grace, in a low tone, as they reached the gate of the pretty cottage where Aunt Betty lived. “Now for it! Put on your best manners, Ruthie, and try not to upset the old lady’s nerves, whatever you do!”

“I shall be sure to do it,” said Ruth sadly, “I’m so awkward.”

Grace and Jenny laughed, not displeased with the thought that the choice would be only between two.

These three girls, so eager to leave their parents and live with Aunt Betty, had comfortable homes, all of them; but in each case there were brothers and sisters and a family purse not full enough to gratify all their desires. Aunt Betty had always been ready to help them out of any difficulty; to give a new dress or a new hat when need became imperative, or a little journey when school work had tired them. So she had come to be the source of many of their comforts and all their luxuries. To live with Aunt Betty, so near their own homes that they would scarcely be separated from them, seemed to them the greatest happiness they could hope for.

Old Sam, the colored servant who had lived with Miss Betty, as he called her, since she was a young woman, and was devoted to her, opened the door for them, a broad grin on his comely face.

“Miss Betty, she’s a-lookin’ fur you-all,” he said; “you’re to take off your things in the hall.”

“Why! Can’t we go into the bedroom as usual?” asked Grace, who liked a mirror and a brush to make sure that every curl was in place.

“No, Miss Grace,” said Sam, “y’r aunt said fur you to take ’em off here.”

Rather sulkily, Grace did as she was bid, and then, bethinking herself of the importance of the occasion, she called up her usual smile, and the three entered the sitting-room where their aunt awaited them.

Aunt Betty was a pleasant-faced lady of perhaps sixty years, but though rather infirm so that she walked with a cane, she was bright and cheery-looking. She was dressed in her usual thick black satin gown and lace mitts, with a fine lace kerchief around her neck and crossed on her breast, and a string of fine gold beads around her throat.

The few moments before Sam opened the door of the dining-room, clad in snowy apron and white gloves, and announced in his most dignified butler’s manner, “Dinner is served!” were passed by Aunt Betty in asking about the three families of her guests, and soon all were seated at the pretty round table, set out with the very best old china, of which every piece was more precious than gold, with exquisite cut glass and abundance of silver. This was an unusual honor, and the girls were surprised.

“You see, nieces,” said Aunt Betty, “this is a special occasion, and I give you my very best.”

“This china’s almost too lovely to use,” said Grace warmly. “I don’t know as I shall dare to touch it!”

“It’s all beautiful!” said Jenny eagerly; “I do love to eat off dainty dishes. Did Sam arrange the table?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Betty, “Sam did everything.”

“Well, he’s just a wonder!” said Grace. “I wish we could ever have a table like this in our house—but then we haven’t any such things to put on it,” she added, with a sigh.

“I only hope,” said Ruth ruefully, “that I shall not break anything. Auntie, you ought to have set me in a corner by myself with kitchen dishes to use; I deserve it for my clumsiness.”

“Well, niece!” said Aunt Betty, with a rather anxious look, “I hope you’ll be on your good behavior to-day, for I value every piece above gold.”

“I know you do,” said Ruth anxiously, “and that’s what scares me.”

While they were talking, Sam had served each one with a plate on which lay a small slice of fish, browned to perfection and temptingly hot. Each girl took a small taste, and then began picking at the food daintily with her fork, but not eating. Grace raised her napkin to her lips, and surreptitiously removed from her mouth the morsel she had taken. Jenny heroically swallowed, and then hastily drank from her glass, while Ruth quietly took the morsel from her mouth, deposited it on her plate, and took no more.

Aunt Betty apparently did not observe all this, but in a moment, seeing that they were toying with the food on their plates, asked quietly, “What’s the matter? Why do you not eat?”

“I don’t care much for fish,” said Grace, in her most polite manner, and, “I beg your pardon, aunt,” said Jenny, in apparent confusion, “but I must confess to having had some candy this morning, and I’m afraid I haven’t much appetite; the fish is fine, I’m sure.”

“And you, Ruth?” asked her aunt.

Ruth hesitated.

“I want the truth, niece,” Aunt Betty went on; “you know I always want the honest truth.”

“Indeed, Aunt Betty,” began Grace, “I’m sure”—She paused, and Jenny broke in, “I’m awfully sorry, Aunt Betty”—But Ruth, while a deep blush rose to her honest face, said in a low tone, “Auntie—I’m sorry to have to tell you—but I think the fish had been kept a little too long.”

Jenny and Grace looked at her in amazement, expecting some burst of indignation from Aunt Betty.

But she only said quietly, though a queer look stole over her face, “Then we’ll have it removed,” touching a bell as she spoke.

Sam appeared instantly, his broad, black face shining, and a grin he could not wholly repress displaying his white teeth.

In a moment he removed the fish and replaced it with the next course, which was turkey, roasted in Sam’s superb way, which no one in the village could equal. This was all right, and received full justice from the youthful appetites, even Jenny forgetting that candy had spoiled hers.

After this the dinner progressed smoothly till ice cream was served with dessert. Again something seemed to be out of joint. Aunt Betty noticed that her young guests did not show their usual fondness for this dish. Again she asked, “Is anything wrong with the cream?” and again she was answered with bland apologies, though some confusion.

“I’ve eaten so much,” said Grace, with a sigh.

“It’s so cold it makes me shiver,” said Jenny, laying down her spoon.

“And what ails you, Ruth?” asked Aunt Betty, with a grave look on her face.

“I’m afraid”—said Ruth timidly, “I’m really afraid Sam spilled some salt in it, auntie;” and so embarrassed was she at being obliged to say what she was sure would be a mortal offense, that in her confusion she knocked a delicate glass off the table, and it was shattered to pieces on the floor.

“Oh, dear!” she cried, “I’ve done it now! Auntie, you’ll never forgive me! I don’t know what ails me when I get among your precious things.”

“I know,” said her aunt grimly. “I believe you are a little afraid of me, my dear, and that makes you awkward. Never mind the glass,” as Ruth was picking up the pieces, tears rolling down her face, “that can be replaced; it is only the china that is precious; don’t cry, child.”

Ruth tried to dry her tears, but she was really much grieved, and her cousins exchanged a look which said plainly as words, “That settles her chance!”

If Aunt Betty saw the look, she did not mention it, but she soon made the move to leave the table, and all gladly followed her into the other room.

“Nieces,” she said, before they had seated themselves, “did you wonder why I had you leave your wraps in the hall today?”

“It was, of course, unusual,” said Grace, “for we have always gone into the bedroom, but it did not matter in the least.”

“It did not make any difference,” murmured Jenny.

“I will show you what I have been doing to the bedroom,” said Aunt Betty, throwing open the door to that room.

It had been entirely transformed. In place of the old-fashioned set of furniture, the gorgeous flowered carpet, the dark walls and thick curtains that had been in the room ever since they could remember, were light-tinted walls, hard wood floors, with several rugs, a modern light set of furniture, pictures on the walls, lace curtains at the windows, all the latest style and very elegant. One thing only made a discord: over the dainty bed was spread a gay-colored cover. It disfigured the whole effect, but the girls apparently saw nothing out of the way.

“Oh, how lovely!” cried Jenny.

“It’s so dainty and sweet!” put in Grace. “Auntie, you have exquisite taste.”

Ruth looked her appreciation till her glance fell upon the bedspread; then she hesitated.

“Nieces, do you like it? Could you suggest any change in it?”

“It is simply perfect as it is,” said Grace warmly, while not to be outdone by Grace, Jenny added with a sigh, “Nothing could improve it, I’m sure.”

Aunt Betty looked at Ruth, who was covered with confusion, but she stammered, “I seem to be the only one to find fault to-day, but indeed, auntie—if you want my honest opinion”—

“I do,” said Aunt Betty, with a smile.

“Well then—couldn’t you—couldn’t you put on a white spread instead of that gay one? That doesn’t seem to suit the beautiful room.”

Aunt Betty smiled again. “Take it off, then, and let’s see!”

Ruth pulled off the spread, and there under it was a dainty lace one as exquisite as the rest of the room.

“I guess we’ll keep it off,” said Aunt Betty, “though Jenny and Grace seem to like it well enough; it certainly is an improvement.”

Aunt Betty’s manner was so peculiar as she said this, that the two girls who had sacrificed truthfulness to please her, began to suspect that there was more in it than they had thought; they were both rather silent when they returned to the sitting-room and Aunt Betty began:—

“Nieces, I have a little plan to tell you about, though possibly you may have suspected it”—with a sharp look at the two guilty ones. “Perhaps you have heard that I have decided, by the advice of my physician, to take one of you to live with me—provided you and your parents are willing, of course. I shall ask a good deal of the one I select, but I shall try to make it up to her. I shall formally adopt her as my own, and, of course, make a distinction in her favor in my will. I shall ask a good deal of her time and attention; but I shall not live forever, and when I am gone, she will be independent, and able to make her own life.”

The three girls were breathless with attention, and Aunt Betty went on.

“I want the one I shall choose to ponder these conditions well; there will be a few years—probably—of partial seclusion from society, and of devotion to her old auntie, and then freedom, with the consciousness of having made happy the declining years of one who buried the last of her own children many years ago.”

She paused—but not a word was spoken—and in a moment she went on.

“I did not know how to choose between you, for you are all so sweet to me, so I made a plan to find out—with Sam’s help—a little about your characteristics. The virtue I prize almost above all others, is—truthfulness, honest, outspoken truth. The bad fish, the salted cream, and the odious spread were tests, and only one of you stood the test and spoke the honest truth. I am glad that one did, for otherwise I should not have found, in my own family, one I could adopt and depend upon.”

She paused; not a word was said.

“Ruth,” she began again, turning to that confused, and blushing, and utterly amazed girl, “Ruth, will you come to live with me, take the place of a daughter, and occupy that room?”

“You ask me?” cried Ruth, “clumsy and awkward as I am! I never dreamed you could want me!”

“I know you did not,” said Aunt Betty; “but your habit of truthfulness is far more valuable to me than the deftest fingers or the most finished manners. Will you come?”

“Oh, yes, indeed!” cried Ruth, falling on her knees and burying her face in Aunt Betty’s lap, while happy tears fell from her eyes, and Aunt Betty gently stroked her hair.

“Well, well,” said Jenny, with a sigh, as the two girls walked slowly home, “I always knew Aunt Betty was the crankiest woman in the world, and if Ruth wasn’t so perfectly sincere I should almost think that she”—

She paused, and Grace broke in.

“Yes; I’m perfectly sure Ruth is not capable of putting on; besides, we always knew she couldn’t deceive to save her life.”

“Hush,” said mamma, as Kristy was about to speak. “Here comes Mrs. Wilson.”

Mrs. Wilson, the next door neighbor, walked in, explaining that she had come in the rain because she was all alone in her house and was lonely, and seeing Mrs. Crawford sewing by the window, thought she would bring her work and join her.

Mrs. Crawford welcomed her, but Kristy was disturbed. “Mrs. Wilson,” she began, “don’t you think a person ought to keep her promise?”

“Why, certainly,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“Kristy! Kristy!” said her mother warningly.

“I’m just going to ask Mrs. Wilson,” said Kristy, with a twinkle in her eye, “if she doesn’t think you ought to go on telling me stories, when you promised to do it as long as it rained. She likes to hear stories, too, I’m sure.”

Mrs. Wilson laughed. “Of course I do, and I shall be delighted, I’m sure. Your mother must be a master hand at the business, for I never knew such a story-lover as you, Kristy.”

“I’ve about told myself out,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Kristy, I think you really ought to excuse me now.”

“How will it do if I tell you one to rest mamma?” asked Mrs. Wilson. “I happen to be much interested just now in a story that is still going on in town.”

“Do tell it!” said Kristy. “I can get mamma to keep her promise this evening.”

Mrs. Wilson laughed, and first taking her sewing out of a bag she carried, she began:—

“It’s about the Home we see on the cars, going to the city.”

“Oh, yes! where we always see girls in the yard as we go by?” said Kristy.

“Yes; I’ll tell you how it began.”

Kristy settled herself more comfortably on the lounge, and the story began.